


Blind Man's Bluff

by WandererRiha



Category: Radiant Historia
Genre: AU, F/M, Gen, Heacanon, Satyros - Freeform, Time Travel, White Chronicle, what if
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2018-12-06 15:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11603265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WandererRiha/pseuds/WandererRiha
Summary: Spoilers for Isla's sidequest.Stocke and Aht help Isla come to the right decision, but Stocke wonders if she need make that decision at all?More fun with time travel and magic books.





	1. Casualties

**Author's Note:**

> This is meant to take place parallel to the canonical plot lines, and does not alter or really affect them terribly much.
> 
> AU's are fun. :)

_It hadn’t gone well. The army had routed them in ways Raynie had not thought possible. But then, that was the problem. They’d gone up against an army, a real army; trained troops with solid armor and powerful weapons. No one had mentioned anything about an organized army, and that piece of false advertising had gotten more than one person killed. Rather than stay and be massacred, they’d beat a hasty retreat, money be damned._

_There were five people missing of their original twelve. They found the bowman and one of the swordsmen still alive, if badly wounded. It was about then that they realized Fulton was missing._

_“Fulton!” Raynie cried, voice raw. “FULTON!” The battle long over, even the looters had left. Only carrion birds and their inert victims lay scattered about. The thief had not survived, nor had the guy who fought with two short blades. Their bodies already picked clean by human scavengers, there was nothing left to do but lay them to rest before the birds and beasts finished the job. Several paces away, Marco crouched down and examined one of the corpses. For a long moment he stared at the body, brows drawn together as if he were having trouble making up his mind. A moment later he turned and waved to one of the others to come and have a look. Curious, Raynie went over as well._

_“You know him?” Marco asked. Drant, a thickset man who wielded a mace, shook his head._

_“I might have. Hard to tell now.”_

_Leaning, Raynie peered at the remains. The corpse was male, fair-skinned beneath the dirt and gore; taller than herself, but shorter than Drant. He was a little too solidly built to be a boy, but so wiry it would be hard to put an age to him. A deep slash to his middle had brought him down, a second cut to his throat had spared him the misery of a slow death by bleeding and sepsis. The looters had stripped him to his skin, not even leaving his linen, only sparing his modesty by rolling his lower half to one side so that one leg obscured the view. His upper body lay flat against the earth, arms splayed awkwardly off to either side._

_“Too bad the birds’ve already been at his face, he does look familiar,” Drant remarked._

_Raynie frowned. His face looked reasonably intact- even handsome- to her, with none of the usual horrible pocks and craters left in the fair skin from a crow’s beak. Indeed, he must be a bit fresher than the others, only his eyes were gone._

_Wait._

_Dropping to her knees, Raynie seized the cold face in both hands and stared at it. The empty sockets were not the usual diseased pools of blood and goo common on corpses. Instead, the exposed flesh was clean and smooth and still faintly pink. With a cry of anguish, she clutched his head to her heart._

_“DON’T LOOK AT HIM!” she sobbed, oblivious to the tears pouring down her face. “Don’t look at him…”_

_“Oh gods…” Marco breathed. “That’s Fulton…”_

_The looters had taken his cassock, his bag of herbs and the prayer book inside it, even the third finger of his right hand was gone. The thieves had simply cut it off rather than try to wrench his fire ring free._

_Shrugging out of his jacket, Marco stepped forward and waited for Raynie to straighten. Reverently, he laid the garment over Brother Fulton’s cold face._

_“...I’ll tell the boss,” Drant said quietly, and left to do just that._

_Kneeling in the grass, Marco put a hand on Raynie’s shoulder, swallowing hard on his own tears._

_“I’m sorry, Raynie…”_

_“It’s not fair,” she sniffed. “He was a monk, a healer… He wasn’t really a fighter. He was blind. Who’d kill a blind monk? He was so nice… He didn’t deserve to die…”_

_“He’s alright,” Marco told her, rubbing her shoulder gently. “He’s not in pain. He’s happy, he’s with his god.”_

_Miserably, Raynie nodded and looked up, eyes streaming. “I don’t know what to do for him… His book is gone and I couldn’t read it even if we still had it but...what do we do for him? How do we bury him?”_

_“He was a monk, but he was also a warrior,” Marco assured her. “We’ll give him a warrior’s funeral along with the others. I think he’d be okay with that.”_

_He would have to be. The light was fading, and they had three men to bury. Rather than pile them all in a ditch, they took the time to dig a longer trench and laid each man inside; thief and swordsman on either side with Fulton in the middle. Marco was able to spare a bandage for Fulton’s eyes and a wider scrap for his modesty. Everyone was quiet. Losing their healer had been a blow, but Fulton had been more than that. He’d certainly been more than just a fellow soldier to Raynie. Had it been anyone else, they might have sung a chorus of a drinking song, but a holy man lay between the two soldiers. It seemed inappropriate to send him off with something so vulgar. The only thing Raynie could think of was the song he’d taught her for her birthday. It was little more than a religiously-slanted nursery rhyme, but it was all she had._

_Putting a hand on her shoulder, Marco’s gruff voice slid in below hers, steadying the wandering melody and strengthening her words. Either more people had listened to Fulton’s sermonizing than she realized, or quite a few of the mercenaries remembered the rhyme from their own distant childhoods. The others sell-swords repeated the words with her, those unfamiliar with the chant humming the familiar tune._

_Once the song had died, they stood awkwardly for a moment before Drant picked up the shovel again and began to scoop earth over the bodies. Unable to bear it anymore, Raynie turned and fled._

_They did not make camp that night. Rather than stick around, they struck off immediately for safer territory. Raynie hated to leave the three men in their anonymous grave. The shaman lady would wonder what had become of Fulton, and there would be no one to tell her. It didn’t seem fair. She had only wanted him to be happy, to feel loved, and now he was gone. Gone forever, without even a headstone to mark his name. He had liked to tell her about the love of his god. She hadn’t thought he was into men, but maybe with monks it was different? She had no idea. If he had truly gone to be with his god, then she hoped that he would make Fulton happy. After so much devotion and such a rotten end, it was the least he could do._

\--

The house was not large, little more than a rented upper room. Although its furnishings were sparse, and obviously second- or even third- hand, it was spotlessly clean. There did not seem to be anyone home, but a flicker of light and movement caught the edge of Stocke’s eye. Turning, he faced only his own reflection in a polished bronze mirror hanging from the wall. Blinking, he cast his eyes over the single room; the bed in the corner, the table with two low stools, the shelves and cupboards full of books, bowls, jars, and dishes; the many herbs dangling from the rafters. There was no one there, and yet… Muttering the incantation to himself, Stocke let his eyes relax and looked the room over again.

There. The ghost was like an inverted shadow; all light and mist and the sparkling energy of a life cut short.

“Aht, look there,” he said, nodding at the shade. “Is that a soul?”

Turning, Aht blinked at the spot indicated. “Yeah…” she said. “I remember this feeling… It’s almost like I should recognize him, but I don’t. He must be someone very important to Isla if he’s still here.”

“I see…”

The ghost was looking at them, head tilted to one side curiously. Well, perhaps ‘looking’ was the wrong word. Although his features were indistinct, he appeared to have a blindfold over his eyes. Stocke could not immediately identify his nationality by his clothing, either. The ghost was dressed in the garments that he had probably worn last; a long robe with a cowl and hood that was thrown back, and heavy soldier’s boots.

“What should we do?”

Aht opened her mouth to speak, but another voice cried out:

“Wait!”

Both spun around to face a figure standing outlined in the doorway.

“Don’t you touch him!” it cried, rushing to put itself between them and the ghost.

“Isla!” Aht cried, a smile splitting her features.

“Why Aht!” Isla seemed equally pleased, relaxing somewhat. Pushing back her hood revealed large, curling horns and brilliantly red ringlets parted down the middle and gathered on either side of her head with bronze clips. Long silver earrings swung from her ears, the clinking of the miniature scales like fairy chimes. “I would never have expected to see you here. So you have become a shaman. Good for you.”

Smiling, she removed her cloak and turned to hang it on a peg. Her outfit was far more elaborate than Aht’s simple kilt and cloak. Most Satyros females Stocke had seen were teenagers or younger, all with lean and wiry bodies. Isla, however, seemed generously built by comparison. Although still a far cry from Raynie, she had a full bosom and wide hips, both covered by handsomely woven cloth and multiple strands of beads. One pendant in particular caught his eye; a small crystal vial hung between her breasts, glowing faintly with a blue-white light.

_His soul…_

“I know what you’ve come here for,” Isla went on. “I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to offer you much in the way of hospitality. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave, please.”

Stocke blinked, confused. This was scandalously rude behaviour for anyone, but much more for a Satyros who were known for their generosity. Unless… He glanced from one shamaness to the other. Of course. The ghost.

“But!” Aht protested, “Uncle Vanoss! I… You… He…” Stamping her foot, she let out a frustrated noise and turned to him. “Ohhh…! What should I do, Stocke?”

“Er…” was his immediate reply. The older woman looked at him with pleading, amber eyes. She would be considered beautiful among her people, even among humans. Both hands had moved to clasp the vial to her heart.

Stocke felt torn. He was not a shaman, not even a cleric. This was not his decision to make. And yet did not all religious orders hold a sacred duty to the dead, to guide their souls to the afterlife so that they could be at peace? Keeping this poor man, whoever he was, trapped among the living was not doing anyone any good.

“I think you should let him complete his journey,” he said gently, addressing Isla rather than Aht. “He needs you to see him safely to heaven. Let him rest.”

She swallowed hard, eyes welling up and spilling over. Silently, she shook her head. “I can’t. Not yet. Not just yet. We had so little time together… I love him, he loves me!”

“Let me ask you something,” he said, moving forward and resting a hand on her shoulder. “Does he want to stay here in this world?”

Sniffing, Isla looked up, but away from Stocke. The shade had come over, one ghostly arm draped around her shoulders. Leaning forward, he touched his forehead to hers and she smiled. His lips moved, but Stocke could not make out the words.

“He says...he wants to stay with me, whatever that may mean.”

“But...he looks so sad,” Aht put in. “He doesn’t belong here. He needs to go where he’s supposed to be.”

It was true, the ghost’s expression matched Isla’s perfectly, right down to the tears soaking dark spots into the bandage over his eyes.

“My sweet darling,” Isla murmured, wrapping her arms around the ghost and hiding her face in his shoulder. “I promised I would not leave you, but are you only staying here for me? To spare me further pain?”

For a long moment the shade and the shaman looked at each other, each cupping the other’s face in their hands. At last, Isla nodded, fresh tears sliding down her cheeks.

“Alright beloved, if that’s what you want. Of course.”

Unknotting the vial’s string from around her neck, she dashed it on the floor, the crystal shattering into a thousand glittering pieces across the rough wooden floorboards.

“I will never stop loving you,” she whispered, “and I will carry you always in my heart.”

Stocke averted his eyes as the shade smiled, and pulled her close to kiss her. When he looked up, the ghost had gone. At once Isla broke down, burying her face in both hands. Mindful of the crystal shards, Stocke pulled one of the stools over and guided her to sit down. Aht brought her a handkerchief which she accepted. Strangely, behind her tears, she was smiling.

“Thank you, Aht,” she sniffed, dabbing at her face. “He...he was smiling… You were right.”

For a long moment she looked at the younger shaman before opening her mouth to speak, but then seemed to think better of it.

“You’re…” she began and then abruptly trailed off. “No. No, I think it’s best if I say nothing. I’m afraid anything I might tell you would only confuse you more. If you would, please give this to my father, Vanoss? I should have surrendered this long ago.”

She unhooked a second charm from around her neck, this one a silver disk embossed with a five-pointed star laid over upon itself. Aht nodded, accepting it.

“Of course, Auntie.”

“I will tell you this much,” Isla went on, looking up at Stocke. “Sometime soon, you and Aht will need to make a decision. I pray that when the time comes, you will make the right one.”

“Thank you,” Stocke told her, bemused. “We won’t trespass upon your hospitality any longer. Come on Aht, we should see what progress Raynie and the others have made.”

Isla looked up sharply at this, and stood. “Raynie? You know a Raynie?”

“Yes, why?” Stocke asked.

“About my height, a bit more solidly built, strong but kind, unschooled yet intelligent, fights with a spear?”

“Yes…” Stocke drawled, now thoroughly confused. “Why do you ask?”

Her smile was bittersweet. “Fulton used to talk about her. They fought together, years ago. This was his.” Reaching, she fiddled with a brooch at her shoulder. Stocke couldn’t help the sudden surge of alarm, hoping that she was not about to undress. However, the brooch had apparently only served to cover the knot that held the single strap of her halter top in place and was not actually integral to preserving the shamaness’ modesty. Taking it from her outstretched hand, Stocke examined it.

It was cheap and primitive, cast in simple pewter, painted, and fixed to a steel pin. The device was simple; a pair of crossed staves with a star above, a holy book below, and the sun and moon on either side. If memory served, this was the heraldry of the outcast monks of one of Alistel’s orders; the so-called “Blood Brothers” who had chosen to take up arms in order to more literally defend their faith. Although warriors, they were known to be remarkably tolerant to those who professed other creeds.

Taking the brooch back from him, Isla instead gave him a small and battered book.

“Will you give this to her?” she asked. “I’m afraid I never did learn to read his holy language. If you would, please ask his brothers to pray for him? It’s what he would have wanted.”

Inclining his head in a half-bow, Stocke accepted the book. “Of course I will. Thank you.”

Once they had taken their leave, Stocke studied the book. To be honest, he’d had about enough of mysterious books, but this one seemed ordinary enough- at least he hoped so. Opening it with fear and trepidation, he eyed the pages nervously. It appeared to be no more than an ordinary prayer book, with one notable exception: over the beautifully illuminated and painstakingly lettered pages of holy script, someone had drizzled symbols in wax. Each and every page bore a different cipher, the wax in a variety of colors and qualities. Here and there, it had even been repaired with fresh wax where the old had crumbled away. This made the book rather fatter than usual, and difficult to stuff into his pouch. Why on earth would a cleric deface his own book of holy scripture? Had it been the shamaness’ doing? And what in the world was the spirit of a monk- even a Blood Brother- doing tied to a Satyros shaman anyway? He would have to ask Raynie when he presented the book to her.


	2. Naked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raynie sees a side of Fulton few have witnessed.  
> Stocke seeks a professional opinion.

_  
There was an informal betting pool as to how Brother Fulton had truly lost his eyes. He gave a different answer every time. What truly impressed Raynie, was that he somehow managed to give the same answer to the same person. For instance, he’d told Marco that one eye had been gouged out because he’d been caught stealing as a child; the other had been pecked out by crows while he was lying wounded on a battlefield after a mission gone wrong. He’d told the captain he’d witnessed something he shouldn’t have, and one of the informants that he’d been born with the mark of evil- each eye a different color- and his parents had had a priest pluck them out shortly after he was born. He gave a different answer to every person bold enough to ask, each story more outrageous than the last, though they varied significantly as to how gruesome they were._

_“Seriously, what happened?” Raynie asked one evening as they sat hunched near the campfire. He turned to look at her, though he could not see her face. Old habits, she supposed, assuming he’d ever had eyes to begin with._

_“My eyes?”_

_“Yes.”_

_He shrugged. “I was born blind.”_

_“You were not either.”_

_Fulton grinned. “How do you know?”_

_“Because you still move and act like someone who used to be able to see.”_

_“Do I, now?” he seemed intrigued._

_“Well, you’re looking at me. Er, facing me. Everybody knows you look somebody in the eye when they’re talking to you.”_

_“What if I’m just zeroing in on the sound of your voice?”_

_Raynie had to stop and think about that. “I still don’t believe you. How do I know you haven’t got eyes under that bandage?”_

_“Do you REALLY think I’d walk around blindfolded just to mess with people?”_

_“Yes.”_

_He couldn’t completely stifle a snerk. “Okay, fair enough. But have you ever seen me without it?”_

_“No, but I know you’re a mage. How do I know it’s not just a glamor?”_

_“Believe me, if I could cover it up with more than just a bandage, I would.”_

_“Prove it.”_

_“Raynie…”_

_“I want to see,” she said, stubbornly crossing her arms under her bosom._

_“No you don’t.”_

_“Yes I do!” she insisted. “Come on! I’ve seen way worse.”_

_“I’m not sure that you have.”_

_“Prove it,” Raynie repeated. “Show me what you’ve got- or don’t got- under that bandage. Otherwise, you’re a liar and a coward.”_

_Fulton’s brows descended into an eyeless scowl. “I won’t be called either.”_

_“Then take the bandage off.”_

_“You asking me to strip?” he teased. Raynie stuck her tongue out at him, not convinced he couldn’t see it._

_“I thought you were a monk?”_

_“I never got to take my vows,” he said with a shrug. “I’m not a full brother, just a journeyman.”_

_Raynie had nothing to say to that. It was common knowledge that the parish Brother Fulton had belonged to had been burned to the ground, and the monks scattered. Rather than hide behind another set of stone walls, he had opted- as he put it- to minister to the community. He was not the strongest fighter in the group by any measure, but he knew his business when it came to healing the ill and injured. That quarter staff he carried had more uses than aiding walking or finding his way. For a guy who couldn’t see what he was doing, he was one of the more lethal staff combatants she’d seen. Raynie certainly had no wish to go up against him- not that she’d ever attack a blind guy. It just wouldn’t be fair._

_“So no vows of poverty, humility, or chastity?” she teased._

_“No one needs to take a vow to be destitute, despised, and alone.”_

_Damn, suddenly somebody was in a brooding mood. Still, he had a very good point._

_“...why do monks do that anyway? I mean, can’t you be wealthy and holy at the same time?”_

_“I’m told it’s harder when you have money and all the comforts it can buy. If you already have everything you need, then you forget to look to the almighty for what you don’t have. You forget that you’re no better than anybody else.”_

_That was probably true. Raynie wasn’t so sure about the religious angle, but it was hard to ignore an empty belly or a cold wind when there was nothing to ease the day to day business of survival._

_“What about the last one?” she asked. “I never understood why anyone would want to give that up.”_

_His smile, she thought, was rather twisted. “There are many reasons for that, believe it or not. To some people, it’s just not that important. Mostly, I think, it’s because your first love is supposed to be spiritual. If you’re busy worrying about a wife and children, it’s harder to do what you need to in order to minister to others.”_

_“That’s dumb,” Raynie told him point-blank. “That doesn’t make any sense at all.”_

_Brother Fulton shrugged. “I never said it did, I just said that it was one reason among many.”_

_That was true enough. For a moment she contemplated the convoluted logic of what he’d said._

_“Would you have taken vows if the parish hadn’t burnt down?”_

_“Oh yes,” he said immediately._

_“You sound pretty sure.”_

_“What else was I going to do? Beg? Becoming a monk was something I could do even without eyes. People wouldn’t think twice about a blind monk. It was either the religious life or starve.”_

_This was all said in an even, very matter-of-fact tone which made Raynie blink._

_“It wasn’t bad, though,” he went on. “It really wasn’t. I didn’t think it was such a harsh life. My chances at marriage hadn’t been great before then, so why not? I didn’t dislike it. I had a family after a sort in the other monks. They all put up with me, quite a few of them even liked me. Yes, I would have gladly taken my vows and not thought twice about it.”_

_“But you haven’t,” Raynie pointed out. “We’ve passed other parishes. You could have.”_

_Brother Fulton shook his head. “No, I couldn’t.”_

_“Why not?”_

_“My brothers don’t believe in violence. They believe all the world’s problems can be solved by prayer. While I don’t disagree, I think you can’t just leave it all up to heaven to do everything for you. Because I took up arms, I’m now outside the Order if not necessarily outside the faith. Any brother who’s shed blood can’t be allowed onto consecrated ground.”_

_“So they kicked you out?”_

_“I can do more good on this side of the wall,” he shrugged. “My family- the other monks- died because there was no one to defend them. The Order is about peace between nations, and love for all people both friend and stranger. They shouldn’t have to fight. Even still, someone has to look out for them. If no one else is going to defend the one group of people who are actually trying to make things better for everyone, then I’ll have to do it.”_

_They sat silent for a long moment, staring into the dying embers of the fire. Well, Raynie stared into the fire. What Fulton was looking at, she could only guess. Maybe he could tell the difference between light and dark, maybe he just enjoyed the glow of the heat. Either way, that was the longest speech she’d ever managed to get out of him. Normally, like the various tall tales about how he’d lost his eyes, he gave vague and evasive answers to any personal questions. Which reminded her…_

_“How did you lose your eyes?”_

_The words, though soft, seemed to echo in the darkness. Around them, the others had retreated to their bedrolls. Only those assigned to first watch stood alert and silent at a distance. For a long moment Fulton did not stir, and she wondered if he’d even heard her, or if he was simply ignoring her. On the point of opening her mouth again, he stood and beckoned to her. Without a word, Raynie followed him a short distance from the fire, hurriedly grabbing a burning branch from its fiery heart so that she, at least, could see where she was going._

_With the nimbleness of a cat, he stepped soft-footed between the sleeping mercenaries, past the privy trench, and into the deeper darkness of the gathered trees. When the camp fire was little more than a dot of orange light beyond the black lattice of the tree trunks, he finally stopped and turned to face her._

_“What?” she asked, holding up the improvised torch so she could see what she could of his face, hidden as it always was beneath his hood._

_“You wanted to see me naked.”_

_Raynie gawped, almost dropping the torch, until its light illuminated his crooked grin. He was teasing her._

_“Pervert!” With her free hand, she shoved him. He stumbled back only a half-step. When he moved forward again, the smile was gone. So, she realized, was his hood._

_“...Fulton?”_

_His head still bowed, she could not properly see his face. At last he straightened and she lifted the torch high, trying to cast what little light there was on his face._

_The blindfold was gone. Without it he did seem naked, alien, his uncovered face that of a stranger. His shaggy dark brown hair fell down over closed eyes._

_“Don’t ever ask me again,” he said softly, pleadingly, and opened them._

_Raynie shied back. There was nothing there. He might have had eyes once, but he didn’t now. Just empty sockets. It was revolting, but a more pragmatic part of her mind recognized that the moist, pink flesh was clean and healthy. That didn’t make it less gross. Mercifully, after a moment, he shut his eyes again, transforming himself from something frightening back into a man. A man not much taller or heavier than she was, at that._

_“I wasn’t born blind,” he told her, voice muffled slightly as he bent his neck to retie the blindfold. “I’ve seen the sun, I remember my mother’s face. I know what the world looks like, but all that stopped when I was very young.”_

_Pulling the hood back up, Brother Fulton as Raynie knew him stood before her once more. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding._

_“What happened?” she asked, voice pitched low in the darkness. The torch had almost burnt out. She only just made out his crooked smile._

_“I’ll let you decide.”  
_

\--

Stocke did not return the prayer book to Raynie. He couldn’t. She’d already lost so many people, it didn’t seem right to rub metaphorical salt in an emotional wound that had never properly healed. Although she wasn’t the kind to brood on things, the fact that she very emphatically never spoke about the tragedies in her past was telling enough. That, and Marco’s face when he’d shown him the book had been all the warning he needed.

“Where did you get this?” the compact swordsman demanded, a shadow passing over his usually sunny face.

“From a Shaman in Skalla,” Stocked explained. “Aht’s aunt Isla, to be exact.”

Marco dropped heavily down onto one of the rough wooden benches lining the perimeter of the practice hall and muttered something that sounded distinctly like a curse.

“What?” Stocked asked, honestly bewildered. Marco heaved a deep, and heavy sigh.

“Fulton was part of the mercenary band we traveled with prior to meeting Heiss,” Marco began. “We lost him in a skirmish in Skalla that we weren’t prepared for. We got overrun by professional troops from Alistel. I’ve often wondered if it was a set up, but I doubt I could prove it. Either way, Fulton didn’t survive. Raynie...took it hard.”

Stocke nodded, now firmly resolved to keep the prayer book to himself. “Were they close?”

Marco shrugged. “About as Close as Raynie gets to someone she’s not sleeping with, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“It wasn’t,” Stocke managed, not a little bit shocked.

“Well, anyway, they were never an item, but they were fond of each other. Like I said, when he was killed...she took it hard.”

“And what of Isla?”

“Now they might have been a thing,” Marco mused. “Can’t prove that either, but I do wonder if they’d ever been alone, would those drunken theology debates have turned into something more. Maybe not, he was awful conservative that way. Probably self-conscious more than self-righteous, he wasn’t one to beat you over the head with the do’s and don’t’s.”

“I see,” Stocke said rather distractedly. The battered little prayer book was almost the same size and weight as the other text secreted down at the bottom of his pack. Here was another volume that could bring either untold pain or happiness. Unless…

“How long ago did you lose him?”

“Well, it was a good year before we lost everyone else,” Marcos said bitterly, “so at least he was spared that. Why do you ask?”

“I was just wondering if I ought to do as Isla suggested and return this to Raynie, but now I think I’d better not,” Stocke said. “I doubt it would bring her any happy memories.”

Marco nodded. “You’re probably right.”

That did not mean, however, that the book might not be of any use to anyone.


	3. Liturgy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raynie reflects on why a man of the cloth would live and work with the scum of the earth?  
> Stocke investigates the same line of logic.  
> Similar conclusions are drawn several years apart.

_Mercenaries tended, by definition, to be a motley crew. People who fought for money generally fell into the category of “unsavory”, “suspicious”, or at the very least “dubious”. To be fair, most of the population of Cygnus could be defined that way. While they were a rough bunch, most were good people at heart. Still, why there was a _monk_ traveling with the band she’d signed to was beyond her. Sellswords weren’t generally the religious type. Superstitious, sure. Religious? Not so much. Most of them either believed there was no higher power, or that said higher power was out to get them. For some reason, they’d made an exception for Brother Fulton._

_Maybe having a cleric along was useful? Raynie couldn’t imagine that he saved many souls, but perhaps they wanted him for funerals? Being a mercenary was a high-risk job and as such, it might be useful to have a priest around to perform last rights or whatever it was that mercenaries did when laying one of their own to rest._

_“I’m not a priest,” he’d told her with a smile when she’d addressed him as ‘Father’. “Just a minister. ‘Brother’ is fine.”_

_His smile had been kind, or she got the impression that it was supposed to be. It was hard to tell. The deep hood left most of his face in shadow, only his chin, mouth, and the tip of his nose visible to anyone who bothered to peer into its depths. Even in the desert heat, he never seemed to push it back. Maybe it was a monk thing, Raynie wasn’t sure._

_Usually he hung back, keeping to the corners of the room, the edge of the action, never saying very much. Although he carried a quarterstaff, he always stayed at the rear of the group, which she found odd. Wouldn’t a short-range weapon like a staff be better served closer to the action? She carried a spear, and Marco a sword, and therefore they often took point on any mission despite their newness to the group. Curious, she let herself drift to the rear while they marched, falling into step with him and one of the marksmen. Sand made for awkward travel at the best of times, but it seemed strange that the monk would need to keep hold of the bowman’s arm, as if he were a lady being escorted to a ball. Equally strange was the way he used his staff. Rather than lift and drop the walking stick with each step, he swept it side to side in front of him. Not until she saw this did it click. She’d seen blind beggars use staffs the same way. Couldn’t he see where he was going?_

_No, apparently he couldn’t._

_She caught him only once with his hood pushed back. It had been late, so late that it was almost early, and they’d had a long, hot day’s march behind them. Even after the sun had vanished the heat lingered, radiating up and into the cool night sky. It had been a moonless night, and even the stars had seemed exhausted by the heat, so faint was their light. Perhaps because he’d been too hot, because it had been so dark, he’d dared to throw off his hood. Raynie hadn’t gotten a good look- it was too hot to even light a fire- only enough to discern a bandage wound around his head, covering his eyes._

_Why the hell would the commander hire a blind monk?_

_\--_

_Of course Raynie didn’t dare ask him outright. She and Marco discussed it when they had a moment to themselves. Of course monks were educated, many of them could read and write, and were trained in the healing arts. Brother Fulton carried a bag of herbs with him at all times, so it made sense for him to act as the apothecary for the group. Raynie supposed it didn’t take eyesight to brew tea or wrap a bandage over a cut._

_Something else he carried in his shoulder bag was a small, fat book no longer than his hand. Several times a day he would rifle through its pages, muttering to himself._

_“What is he mumbling about?” she whispered to Marco._

_“Prayers, I think,” the smaller man replied. “That’s what monks do. They pray.”_

_“But why? What’s he praying for?”_

_Marco shrugged. “How should I know? I’m a swordsman, not a priest. Why don’t you ask him yourself?”_

_“Okay, I will!” At once she trotted off to do just that, leaving Marco staring after her in bewilderment._

_“What are you praying for?” Raynie asked, running up to Brother Fulton and presenting her question forthrightly. If he had eyes, she was sure he would have blinked._

_“Right now? The peace of the nation in general, and the memory of those who have striven to ease tensions and strife between neighbors.”_

_It was Raynie’s turn to blink. “Really? Wouldn’t that put us out of a job?”_

_“I hope so. No one’s ever retired from a career as a hired sword, anyway. Wouldn’t you rather live safe, knowing that you don’t have to keep your spear close by because there is no need?”_

_“I guess,” Rayne had to agree. “Has anybody made a career out of...what was it? Trying to get people to be friends?”_

_Brother Fulton smiled. “Well, I have, my brothers, Grandfather, and of course the Prophet Noah.”_

_“Isn’t he dead too?”_

_“Last I heard, he was very much alive. Advanced in years, but alive.”_

_Raynie leaned sideways to peer at his prayer book. Overtop the beautifully colored and illuminated illustrations someone had drizzled a pattern in wax. Belatedly, it occurred to her:_

_“Wait, if you’re blind, how can you read?”_

_“I can’t,” he grinned. “Grandfather drew these symbols on the pages so I can tell by touch what day it is, and what prayers to say.”  
The book was small, yet fat, each page made slightly thicker by their wax designs._

_“There’s got to be a hundred pages in that thing!” she exclaimed. “How can you memorize all that?”_

_“Three hundred sixty-five, to be exact,” Brother Fulton explained. “One for every day of the year. Well, it’s more like three-seventy. There’s a couple of extra pages for feast days and solstice.”_

_Raynie’s head ached just thinking about it. “I still don’t know how you can keep all that in your head.”_

_The monk shrugged. “I haven’t anywhere else to keep it.”_

\--

A cue of sorts had formed in Brother Fulton’s general vicinity. Skalla had a handful of religious professionals in residence, but none of them followed the teachings of the Prophet Noah. Apparently there were quite a few misplaced souls who followed the Alstelian school of thought. Stocke watched, silent, as the cluster of faithful ebbed and flowed.

Once Raynie and Marco had withdrawn, he edged closer. He still wasn’t near enough to make out the actual conversation, but better able to observe facial expression and gesture. It wouldn’t do to have past versions of Raynie and Marco notice him. He didn’t want to edit the timeline just yet, only get a sense of the character of the former owner of the prayer book. Brother Fulton didn’t seem to be one to lecture his scattered sheep. Instead, he listened thoughtfully, nodding occasionally as confession was made or questions asked. As the last petitioner concluded his interview, Stocke retrieved a full mug and went to take his place.  
“Brother,” Stocke said by way of announcing himself. He set the mug down with an intentional thud near the monk’s hand.  
“Thank you, brother,” Fulton replied, taking a cautious sip. Stocke smiled a little to himself. Brother Fulton had lived outside the monastery a long enough for testing his food for poison- or at the very least mold- to become habit.

“Tell me your troubles,” Fulton asked, prompting with the traditional opening for confession.

“Actually, I was hoping you might tell me yours,” Stocked countered. The monk smiled, amused, and took a more generous swallow of ale.

“That’s kind of you,” he replied, “but I have no complaints.”

“Everyone has complaints,” Stocke argued. “Not everyone gives voice to them.

That made Fulton chuckle. “True enough.”

Now that he sat in front of him, Stocke had gone slightly blank. It wasn’t as if he could interrogate Fulton about his relationship with Raynie, not without sounding like a creep, anyway. How best to gauge the character of a man now dead? Did he even deserve to be dead? And if not, was there a way to save his life? 

Well. Why not start with the obvious?

“What’s a monk doing with a band of mercenaries?”

Fulton did not, as Stocke had worried, snort his ale. Instead, he swallowed and smiled. “I get that a lot,” he said calmly. In answer, he thumbed the device on his cowl. Stocke leaned forward and squinted at it, unfamiliar with the little bit of heraldry.

“I’m not familiar with this sigil,” Stocke told him. “What is it?”

“It means I obey the teachings of the Prophet Noah- to a point,” Brother Fulton explained. “I’m one of the so-called ‘Blood Brothers’.”

Now _that_ Stocke was familiar with. “A follower of Noah who has shed blood, and therefore outcast from the order.” Stocke confirmed. “On crusade, are you?”

Brother Fulton shook his head. “Not as such. Not too many people want to hear a sermon, but I’ve had plenty who want to confess their sins, or ask a blessing. It doesn’t occur to most people that mercenaries, thieves, and miscreants have hearts and souls that might need tending to. I’m needed and wanted here.”

Stocke nodded, adding an “I see,” since Brother Fulton couldn’t hear his head rattle.

Normally, people went out of their way to avoid those with disabilities; or at least those without thaumatech to augment them. People like Brother Fulton who had only bandages to hide their injuries usually had to resort to begging since they couldn’t do standard work. However, people seemed to seek Brother Fulton out wherever the band went. As he’d said himself, he was performing a necessary service to those who otherwise would not receive it.

“And what about you,” Stocked asked. “Who ministers to you?”

Fulton shrugged. “I may not be allowed into the rectory with the rest of my brothers, but they still pray for me, and I for them. We watch out for each other.”

Stocke nodded, but couldn’t help wondering if that was really true?


	4. Dating Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raynie is Raynie and Stocke is Stocke.  
> Marco and Fulton try to be helpful.  
> It goes about as well as you might expect.

Stocke had to forcibly remind himself not to reach for his sword. He could attribute some of his anger to jealous rage, but not all of it. This Raynie was only a little more than a girl, and the surge of emotion welling up inside him was more that of a protective guardian and, less that of a cuckolded lover. This Raynie didn’t know him yet. She was free to make her own decisions, but damn if she didn’t have terrible taste in men.

She was- perhaps unintentionally- drawing the eye of most of the men and a few of the women browsing the market. For the third time, Marco ran up and dragged her off by the elbow, ostensibly to admire some wares on a cart halfway down the street, well away from a would-be admirer. Raynie followed blythely oblivious the first time, but now there was an annoyed look on her face. She perked up when another ruffian began plying her with muscles and flattery.

Inwardly, Stocke seethed, fingering the pommel of his sword. The churl was saved from an untimely death by the grace of Brother Fulton coming over to attach himself to Raynie’s side.

—

_“You should be careful, you’re a beautiful girl, Raynie.”_

_She scowled at the monk, not caring if he couldn’t see how annoyed she was._

_“How do you know if I’m beautiful? You’ve never seen my face.”_

_“No,” he conceded, “but I know what you look like.”_

_“What color is my hair?”_

_He shrugged. “I don’t know.”_

_“What about my eyes?”_

_“I don’t know.”_

_“Is my skin fair or dark?”_

_“Again, I don’t know.”_

_“Ha!” she laughed, the tone mocking. “You admit it. You have no idea what I look like.”_

_Strangely, he seemed unperturbed by her remarks. A small smile tugged at his lips, never fully managing to curl them all the way up, weighted as it was by what appeared to be sadness. Stepping forward, he reached a hand toward her. Creepy as he was sometimes, he was always nice to her, and so Raynie took his hand in hers._

_“I know what you look like Raynie,” he repeated. “I know that you’re about chin high on me, but still growing. I know that your skin is soft, but your body strong. I know that your heart is brave, but also kind. You may not be educated, but you have a quick wit and wisdom that only comes from having to make your own way in the world.”_

_For some reason she had not expected that. Staring up into that eyeless face, she thought she could read fondness in the folds of the bandage. Right hand still holding hers, his left drifted up toward her face. With one finger, he delicately traced the edge of her jaw, barely even touching her skin. She couldn’t help the shiver of gooseflesh that followed._

_“I may not know what your outsides look like,” he admitted, “but you’re beautiful inside.”_

_Swallowing, she took a step back, pulling away from his hands. “Is that why you and Marco have been cock-blocking me for the last month?”_

_If he had eyes, Raynie was pretty sure he had blinked behind the blindfold. The moment broken, he chuckled at her remark._

_“Well, someone’s got to look out for your virtue.”_

_Raynie gave a rather unladylike snort. “What virtue?” she challenged. “A lady likes some attention. I’m not a kid. I can take care of myself.”_

_He seemed amused at this, which only made her more annoyed. “I am well aware you can take care of yourself, but I’ve been fending off potential...suitors...so that you don’t have to.”_

_“I can make my own decisions!” she snapped, angry that a bunch of men- one no older than she was- would dare to make her decisions for her._

_“I’m not suggesting you can’t.”_

_“I don’t need some blind old man telling me what to do! What do you know about it anyway?”_

_“Not much,” he admitted with a calmness that was perfectly maddening. “All purely academic, at least as far as the mechanics are concerned. I’ve got considerably more experience after the fact.”_

_That threw her. “Huh?”_

_“People who were hurt by their partners, accidental pregnancies, starving children, and all the complications that come with them.”_

_“I’m not gonna get pregnant,” she huffed. “Honestly, how dumb do you think I am?”_

_“I don’t think you’re dumb.”_

_‘Just young’, the words hung unspoken between them. The implication did nothing to calm her ire._

_“Coulda fooled me,” she grumbled, purposely shoving him as she brushed past._

_“Hey,” he caught her arm with one hand, but she roughly shook him off. Fed up, she pushed him hard with both hands, making him stumble back._

_“Don’t TOUCH me!”_

_He held up both hands in surrender, but Raynie didn’t care. “You’re not the captain, you’re not even an officer, you’re only a cleric. Hell, you’re not even a REAL cleric!” She shoved him to emphasize her point. “You’re a stupid rookie monk who probably hasn’t got anything under that dress anyway!”_

_At this point people were staring, this included Marco, who blinked blankly, a twist of sweet bread still in his mouth. Raynie stopped short, gathering breath to further chew him out. Finger still pointing at his nose, she closed her mouth rather awkwardly. Long, gentle fingers curled around her wrist._

_“Raynie,” Brother Fulton asked softly, “a word?”_

_The gentle grip turned hard, and Raynie felt herself yanked half off her feet. Scratching his stick from side to side across the hard earth of the market street, he dragged her toward the nearest alleyway._

_“Are we alone?” he asked._

_“Yeah…” Raynie drawled, confused._

_“Good.” Leaning his staff against one wall, he turned and seized her other wrist, pinning her hands above her head against the wall._

_“What the hell?!” she shrieked, automatically bringing a knee up. “Get off me!”_

_The solid metal of her knee guard should have connected soundly with his crotch, but his body was angled out and away, out of her reach. No sooner had she tried to knee him than he’d pressed his hip against hers so hard she could feel the point of his pelvis digging into her stomach._

_“Now you listen to me,” he told her, voice still soft and even; at odds with his actions. Raynie tried to stomp on his foot, but couldn’t reach. Her arms pinned, there wasn’t much more she could do besides wriggle where she stood. Honest fear had begun to seep through her anger, and the thought of biting him crossed her mind._

_“I’m not going to hurt you,” he told her as if talking down a frightened child. “I don’t want to hurt you. I could, but I’m not going to. That doesn’t make me a good man. That doesn’t even make me a nice one.”_

_Trapped, Raynie could only stare at his eyeless face, his expression impossible to read. Struggling had gotten her nowhere and so she stood still, wondering if she ought to be frightened or not. Fulton was a monk, he was her friend, but what he’d said was true. He was a man and therefore bigger than she was, and stronger too, though he didn’t look it. He could take her in a fight. He could take her in a fight and WIN. The thought chilled her down in the pit of her stomach, the fear more from confusion than from the idea that he might hurt her. Because he wouldn’t hurt her, right? Hadn’t he just said as much?_

_But not all weapons were made of steel and wood. The idea came like an electric jolt to her brain, the fear melting as resolve flared. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d had to placate an angry boyfriend, and the thing that threw them most was NOT resisting. For a long moment she studied his face, his intense focus, as if he were looking into her eyes._

_“Do you understand?” he asked._

_Leaning forward, she pressed her lips against his. He started, but only slightly. She could feel the surprise, the slight lift to his chin and shoulders as she kissed him. His grip, however, did not relax. He was supposed to startle into letting her go, to shy back from her feminine wiles. Journeyman monks weren’t supposed to have significant others, they shouldn’t even know how to kiss. Except this one clearly did. The initial surprise gone, he kissed her back, opening his lips to her in a way that somehow still came off as gentlemanly. Realizing this was getting her nowhere, Raynie leaned back until her head touched the alley wall. It seemed a shame that such a strange and perfect moment should be bookended by the hard reality of his words:_

_He could hurt her, but he chose not to. Not everyone would make the same choice._

_“Um…”_

_Raynie turned her head hard at the sound. Marco stood awkwardly at the mouth of the alley way._

_“Are you two okay? What’s going on?”_

_Brother Fulton had dropped her hands and was somehow standing a good two or three feet away, staff in hand as if nothing had happened._

_“Nothing,” he answered calmly, as if they hadn’t been snogging only seconds ago. “Raynie and I were just having a little discussion. I was elaborating on some of the finer points of my argument, but I think we’ve reached an understanding, haven’t we?”_

_“Yeah,” she breathed, eyeing him with a mixture of distrust and awe. “I understand.”_

\--

It had taken all of Stocke’s restraint to keep from stepping in. His fingers still gripped the pommel of his sword, white-knuckled. He hadn’t thought the monk would hurt her, might force himself on her, not really. Except… Stocke shuddered himself at the second-hand lesson. Everyone had the potential to become dangerous, even people who might be considered friends. All of Raynie’s tactics to escape had proved fruitless. The kiss had left him particularly hot under the collar from an awkward mix of anger and embarrassment. Surely there was nothing behind it for either party, but still…

Stocke stood silently, watching from the rooftop as the little party moved away and down the street. Raynie remained firmly attached to Brother Fulton’s arm until they were out of sight, lost in the mass of the market day crowd. For a long moment he watched the place where they had been, and tried to think. Eventually, he pulled out one book, then the other, and vanished.


	5. Awkward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is listening in.  
> Also, Stocke can't decide how he feels about all this.

 

Following Raynie and Marco and the band of mercenaries was proving difficult. It didn’t matter if so much if anyone not part of the group saw him, but it was difficult indeed to get close enough to monitor things without at least one battle-honed soldier noticing him. Thank goodness Brother Fulton was blind. He might notice, but at least he wouldn’t _see_. That in mind, Stocke edged as close to the campfire ring as he could, glad of the moonless night and the shelter that the deep shadows offered.

\--

 

_“You ever do someone?”_

_Brother Fulton’s head snapped to one side, as if to look at her. “Excuse me?”_

_“You ever do anyone?” Raynie repeated. “You know. Sex?”_

_She had expected him to blush, but instead, he snorted a chuckle through his nose._

_“I came close a few times, but no.”_

_“What happened?”_

_“Raynie, I’m a MONK. Generally speaking, no one wants to do a monk, especially one with no eyes.”_

_“Not even a hooker? An ugly hooker?”_

_He laughed outright at that. “I’m not that desperate. Besides, I would never pay for sex.”_

_“You wouldn’t, huh? That why you’ve never been laid?”_

_“Among other reasons. I believe I previously mentioned that I am a monk? Vow of chastity and all of that.”_

_“But you said you came close?”_

_Brother Fulton shrugged. “I got caught kissing the washerwoman’s daughter once when I was just a novice. Her mother had some objections to her eldest canoodling with a blind boy.”_

_“You said ‘a couple of times’,” Raynie prompted, hoping for more details than that._

_“Well, there was this very nice shamaness a few months before you joined,” he mused, cheeks coloring ever so slightly. “I got to know her fairly well for a time. You know I love a good drunken theology debate.” He grinned and Raynie rolled her eyes._

_“That’s the ONLY way I could stomach a theology debate.”_

_He chuckled at that and fingered his battered prayer book. “I quite liked her, but once the band got another job, we went our separate ways and I did not see her again.”_

_“You ever hook up?”_

_He shook his head. “No. No, I’m afraid no castles were stormed that day. Hardly more than a parley, really. Still, that’s closer than I’ve gotten to any woman besides the one that gave birth to me.”_

_“Well that sucks,” Raynie said stolidly. “Hardly seems fair. You’re so nice.”_

_Smiling, Brother Fulton found her shoulder and patted it. “Thank you. Few things are fair in this world. Still, I don’t mind being single. I’m hardly alone. I have the rest of the band; all my friends within it. I never expected to lead a life with romance in it, so I’m not disappointed about not experiencing something I was never going to have anyway.”_

_“Just because you’re blind?”_

_“And a monk, but mostly that first one.”_

_“You could lose the dress?” Raynie suggested. “I could take you shopping!”_

_They’d been well-paid for their last mission, and even after the obligatory celebration, Raynie still had plenty of coin left. Brother Fulton received his fair share just like everyone else, but she’d never actually seen him spend much. Laughing, he shook his head._

_“Thank you, but I think I’ll pass. I don’t think it would help much, anyway.”_

_“I’ll pay?” she offered. It’d be worth it just to see him in something besides that shapeless brown roughspun nightgown he called a robe. He was probably pretty built under there. Brother Fulton shook his head._

_“Really, it’s fine. Don’t throw your money away on me, Raynie. If I need anything, I can get it for myself. ‘Those whose need is greatest must be aided first. Seek not for your own comfort, but share what you have. In doing so, all may be provided for,’ so says the Prophet Noah.”_

_“What do you do with your share?” she asked. “You obviously don’t spend it.”_

_The monk was silent for a moment. “That money...isn’t really mine. Yes, I earned it, but I took a vow of poverty. I send it home to my family, to use as they see fit.”_

_Fulton had no family besides the church. This seemed doubly unfair to Raynie. Why should he give his money to the very people who refused to let him inside the abbey walls just because he’d taken up arms to defend them? It made absolutely no sense, and she told him as much._

_“That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard!” she declared. “I couldn’t give anything to people who won’t even let me back in the house.”_

_Fulton, however, only shrugged. “That’s just the way it works, Raynie. I still love them, and believe it or not, they still love me. I may not be able to go in to them, but a few have come out to visit me.”_

_“It’s still stupid,” she said stubbornly. “You aren’t allowed to do anything for yourself, not even let off some steam and have a little fun.”_

_Maddeningly, he just shook his head. “It comes with the territory. I knew what I was signing up for.”_

_He did, but that didn’t make the injustice of it all sting any less. There were plenty of preachers out there with wives and like a million kids. Why should Fulton be deprived of that just because he couldn’t see?_

_“Why is this so important to you, anyway?” he asked, his words scattering her thoughts like dry leaves. Raynie shrugged._

_“Well, you deserve to be happy as , and to have someone love you even if it’s just for a little while.”_

_“Sex and love are not the same thing, Raynie.”_

_“How would you know? You’ve never had either one.”_

_He had nothing to say to that, and suddenly Raynie felt guilty._

_“Sorry,” she said after a moment of conscious-stricken silence. “That was a low blow.”_

_Fulton only shrugged. “You’re right, I can’t speak from personal experience, but I’ve witnessed it in others.”_

_“What do you mean?” Raynie asked, tilting her head to one side in confusion._

_“I’ve had to patch up a lot of broken faces; women- and men too- whose lovers had a heavy hand. Even women like you, women who were bold and strong and could wield a sword, but could not raise a hand against the one that struck them down.”_

_Raynie opened her mouth to retort, but found no words there. She watched, bemused, as Fulton’s hand slid across her back to her far shoulder, tugging her close._

_“I know you just want to feel loved,” he said softly. “I understand that, believe me. I’m just worried, that’s all. I know that you’re strong, and fearless, and that you can fend for yourself, but that doesn’t mean you should have to.”_

_For a long moment Raynie sat silent, turning his words over in her head. No one had offered to do anything for her in a long time. Originally, she had been angry with him and Marco for running off potential bed friends. She liked to think she knew how to weed out the losers, but apparently this was one area where Fulton knew what he was talking about. It wasn’t as if he was running them all off, just the creeps._

_“Sorry,” she said, scooting a bit closer so she could lean against him. He was all sharp angles under the rough cassock, but he smelled a lot nicer than most of the band. It was somewhere between some holy mandate that dictated he wash more often than everyone else, and the lingering scent of the herbs that he carried around with him. Letting her arm circle his waist, she felt him pat her shoulder. “I just want you to feel loved too, yanno?”_

_Fulton smiled. “I know you do, and I appreciate it.” ___

__\--_ _

__Stocke could not decide if he ought to be jealous or not. He was reasonably sure Raynie was fond of him, but clearly she’d formed a previous attachment to Brother Fulton. Given that the followers of Noah were a largely celibate clergy, he didn’t think he had much to worry about, at least not from the monk. Still… Stocke, reached and closed his fist around the pouch at his belt, feeling the soft corners of the prayer book through the leather. Would returning Brother Fulton to Raynie cost Stocke her attention?_ _

__Stocke gave himself a mental shake. No. What a thing to think. How callous, how utterly selfish. Of course he should try to right things, to give the poor man a chance at life. After all, had he and Aht not found his ghost in Isla’s home? Surely there was something deeper there. Perhaps it would be best to follow them a bit closer. If nothing else, he had no idea when he ought to intervene, or how. Yes. For now, he would watch and wait. The right moment would present itself soon enough._ _


	6. Debate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are drunken theology debates.

_Why anyone would want to occupy Skalla was beyond Raynie. It was kind of out in the middle of nowhere, and sandier than a lot of other towns. Still, there were plenty of people and trade was good. It was wealthy even if it was dry, which was probably why Granorg and Alistel had been glaring at each other over it. However, their band of mercenaries was not there to fight someone else’s war. Armed conflict with Alistel was not something any of them would consider. Instead, they were there to bolster the regular and civilian troops, filling in gaps that had been left when the local troops had gone to deal with a some raiders that had been making a nuisance of themselves._

_“Must he come?” the mayor had asked, eyeing Fulton askance. The Captain blinked._

_“Yes.”_

_The mayor didn’t wrinkle his nose so much as his whole face. “But,” he said, lowering his voice as if Fulton could not hear him, “he’s blind!”_

_“So?”_

_“I’m sorry, I cannot have a Begging Brother- much less one who is deformed- inside my house. My wife is expecting and I will not have her upset.”_

_The Captain scowled and Raynie helped. Standing at the Captain’s elbow, Fulton inclined his head and opened his mouth._

_“Forgive me, my lord. I am sorry if my appearance offends. I cannot help the way I was made. The almighty did not see fit to bless me with sight. If I may be so bold, I am one of the Blood Brothers and not a beggar.”_

_Raynie smiled, enjoying the purple hue that had surged up into the Lord Mayor’s face. It was really too bad Fulton couldn’t see it, but if he could, they probably wouldn’t be having this conversation._

_“Brother Fulton,” the Captain replied, the Tone of Command in his voice, “is part of the deal. It will be all of us, or none of us.”_

_The Mayor opened his mouth- no doubt to tell them to take their blind monk and get the hell off his doorstep- but Brother Fulton laid a hand on the Captain’s arm._

_“It’s alright, Sir. If he does not want me in his house, I won’t go inside.”_

_“Brother…” the Captain began, but Fulton shook his head._

_“It’s fine, really.”_

_The Captain looked reluctant, but nodded. “Alright, then. Dismissed.”_

_Inclining his head to the Mayor again, Brother Fulton nodded to the Captain before turning and making his way back toward the door. Raynie caught his outstretched hand and tucked it under her elbow._

_“What an ass,” she remarked once they were outside the courtyard and back on the blessedly public streets of Skalla. “I hope the Captain tells him where to stick it.”_

_True they needed the job, but in Raynie’s mind the guy was just being needlessly rude. Fulton, however, seemed lost in thought. He might not have any eyes, but the set of his jaw and the draw of his lips told her much._

_“What?” she asked._

_“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “Something feels off. I’ve been brushed off before. I know people are weird about Blood Brothers, but that seemed really contrived for some reason.”_

_Raynie had not thought of this. “You think?”_

_“I’m not sure,” he mused, lips twisting. “I’ll ask the Captain later.”_

_“Okay. Let’s go get a drink!” Raynie suggested, dragging him toward the pub that the rest of the band had overrun. Laughing, he stumbled along after her._

_Their band had more or less taken over the inn, and the proprietor looked as if he couldn’t decide if he was happy about this or not. The Captain was always good about making sure their bills were paid- so long as THEY got paid first- so he probably had plenty to smile about. It wasn’t often they got real food and real beds. Most everyone else seemed to be engaged in filling their bellies with food and ale. Raynie found Marco already tucking into a bowl of stew and dragged Fulton over with her._

_“Save some for me?” she asked, grabbing a slice of bread and swiping it through his stew._

_“Get your own,” he told her, huddling protectively over his bowl. Raynie just laughed._

_“I will, I just want to see if it’s any good first,” she told him. Marco made a face at her and went back to his food._

_“Excuse me?”_

_Raynie looked up at the new voice. A Satyros woman had wandered up. She was...striking was the only word Raynie could come up with. Hair a brilliant berry red and large curling horns spiraling around her ears, she was beautiful yet unusual-looking even for a Satyros. Her outfit didn’t say “performer” per se. Indeed, the emerald green wrap skirt seemed impractical for dancing; covering one auburn leg while leaving the other bare. She didn’t have any bells, which would have been typical for a dancer, but a faint chiming tinkled from the silver earrings sweeping her shoulders. More than the average number of beads and bangles hung about her neck and wrists, all but obscuring her deep purple halter top._

_“I thought I recognized you. It’s been a while.”_

_Fulton tilted his head to one side. “Isla?”_

_The Satyros woman smiled broadly and took his hand. “Yes, it’s me. I wasn’t expecting to see you again.”_

_“Neither was I,” he replied, his own smile just as wide._

_“Won’t you introduce me to your friends?” she asked._

_“Oh, of course.” Turning, he nodded in their direction. “This is Raynie and Marco.”_

_“Hi!” Raynie said, hastily swallowing her bite of bread. “Nice to meet you. I never knew Brother Fulton had a girlfriend.”_

_Amazingly, Fulton blushed. “Not quite.”_

_Raynie stared, open-mouthed. It was damn near impossible to get a rise out of the monk. Nothing fazed him. Or at least, that’s what she’d thought. If he was blushing he HAD to have a crush on her! Isla, by contrast, seemed amused though her cheeks were also pink._

_“I count myself lucky to have Brother Fulton as a friend, but that is all we will ever be: just friends.” The smile that accompanied this was kind, polite, and did much to soften a statement that might have otherwise seemed insulting. Still confused, Raynie nodded. There was no way she was going to chase Fulton’s girlfriend off if she could avoid it._

_“Please, sit down,” she said, tugging the Satyros woman down onto the bench next to Fulton. “You want a drink? Brother Fulton hasn’t had a drunken theology debate for a while.”_

_Isla laughed; a sweet, melodic sound like birdsong. “That depends on whether or not he’s heard confession yet? How long did it take you last time?”_

_If Fulton had had eyes, Raynie was sure he would have rolled them. “Forever,” he groaned. “I don’t know what it is about itinerant ministers. Maybe people figure I’ll carry their misdeeds out of the city with me.”_

_“You mean you don’t?”_

_Fulton thought about that for a minute and shrugged. “I suppose I do, in a manner of speaking. Although, they’re the ones who are still going to have to stay here and sort out the consequences.”_

_“Aaaaaand they’re off,” Marco remarked, finishing his stew. “C’mon we may as well get a drink, they’ll be at this for hours.”_

\--

Stocke found himself a bench not far away, the better to listen in. He only had a general idea of Noah’s teachings, and none at all of Skalla’s shamanic doctrines. The overheard conversation was soon beyond him as they spiraled deeper and deeper into the finer points of all things religious. Stocke had never reckoned that such a subject might be considered romantic. Indeed, he’d seen many a fight started in drunken debate, but never before romance. Perhaps it was the ale, but shaman and monk had their heads together, noses all but touching. He waited and waited, lingering over his own drink, anticipating their kiss. However, it never came. Fulton and Isla simply sat, arms entwined, heads together, as if no one else existed in all the world.

Stocke would be the first to admit that he was not exactly astute when it came to matters of the heart. However, this was difficult to miss. It wasn’t as if they were being indecent, but anyone with eyes could see that there was deep affection there. Did he and Raynie look like that to others? Stocke thought not. Perhaps it would be no bad thing if ever they did. To have what Fulton and Isla clearly had…or should have had. Stocke set his mug down decisively. He would find a way for Fulton to live, for Raynie’s happiness and for Isla’s.


	7. Prisoner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catch and release

_It hadn’t gone well. The army had routed them in ways Raynie had not thought possible. But then, that was the problem. They’d gone up against an army, a real army; trained troops with solid armor and powerful weapons. No one had mentioned anything about an organized army, and that piece of false advertising had gotten more than one person killed. Rather than stay and be massacred, they’d beat a hasty retreat, money be damned._

_There were five people missing of their original twelve. They found the bowman and one of the swordsmen still alive, if badly wounded. It was about then that they realized Fulton was missing._

_“Fulton!” Raynie cried, voice raw. “FULTON!” The battle long over, even the looters had left. Only carrion birds and their inert victims lay scattered about. The thief had not survived, nor had the guy who fought with two short blades. Their bodies already picked clean by human scavengers, there was nothing left to do but lay them to rest before the birds and beasts finished the job. Several paces away, Marco crouched down and examined one of the corpses. For a long moment he stared at the body, brows drawn together as if he were having trouble making up his mind. A moment later he turned and waved to one of the others to come and have a look. Curious, Raynie went over as well._

_She breathed a guilty sigh of relief. Whoever this poor beggar was, he wasn’t one of their band. That still left Fulton unaccounted for. Where the hell had he gone?_

_“Where IS he?” Raynie demanded._

_“Well,” Marco reasoned, “we haven’t seen him among the wounded, and he’s not among the dead. He hasn’t come back yet, so he must have been captured.”_

_“Captured?” Raynie echoed. “Why?”_

_Marco shrugged. “A healer’s a healer. The other side took some losses too. Maybe they needed an extra medic. Maybe they thought a follower of Noah would make a good bargaining chip. Maybe they want someone to bless their dead? Hell if I know.”_

_Captured. Yes. She could live with ‘captured’. A live, imprisoned Fulton was significantly better than a dead one. At least this way they had a chance of getting him back. They just had to figure out how._

\--

Stocke watched from a distance as the monk and other captives were led away. It was unlikely he’d be killed. At worst he’d be taken prisoner, thrown in a dungeon or put to work nursing enemy soldiers. It was better than an anonymous death on the battlefield. If Brother Fulton wasn’t involved in the conflict, he could not die of it.

Still, the threads of Fortune bound Fulton tightly. Pull the wrong one, and all of Stockes hard work would unravel. It might be best to stick around and watch, just to make sure he didn’t get himself killed further down the line.

\--

_The prisoner was dressed simply in a rough brown cassock and cowl. Perhaps he was an acolyte, for he didn’t look tall enough to be more than an apprentice to the religious life, nor did he wear any of the usual religious accoutrements. A charity perhaps? Or maybe one of the Begging Brothers? The Commander was still puzzling over this as the guards brought the ecclesiastical captive stumbling forward, each gripping an elbow, and shoved him to his knees. The hem of his robe drawn above his ankles, a sturdy if beleaguered pair of boots became visible. Normally the holy brothers favored sandals, then again, it was winter. Physical mortification probably did not extend to frostbite._

_“Well Brother,” the Commander began, motioning for the guards to step back. “What brings you to us?”_

_“Your guards,” was the rather cheeky answer. “I was taken and I do not know why.”_

_“Indeed,” the Commander lifted an eyebrow at this. “My men are not in the habit of capturing the innocent. What were you doing?”_

_“Defending myself,” the monk countered. “Defending myself and the wounded.”_

_A healer, then. That made sense. He didn’t look like a fighter. Standing, the monk could not have been more than shoulder high to the Commander, and appeared to be a featherweight beneath the bulky robes. The hands bound in front of him were like that of a woman, long-fingered and delicate; much more suited to a scalpel than a sword. The Commander blinked as a red light briefly flashed from those hands. Leaning closer, he noticed a small red jewel winking in the darkness. A ring. A _fire_ ring._

_“I thought all brothers took a vow of poverty. Why then do you sport a fire ring?”_

_“A fire ring?” the monk echoed, at last raising his head though no more of his face was visible than before. Only a small, rather pointed chin and thin-lipped mouth showed beneath the shadow of his hood. He tilted his head, perplexed. “I wear no ring.”_

_The commander scowled. “Take it from him.”_

_One of the guards stepped forward and roughly seized the monk’s hand, except…_

_“There’s no ring, sir.”_

_The other leaned over to examine the prisoner’s hand and confirmed what the first had said. “Just bare skin, sir. He ain’t got no ring.”_

_“Perhaps you saw this?” Straightening somewhat revealed a metal belt buckle heretofore hidden by the monk’s bound hands. The metal was old and weathered, but beautifully polished. It must have reflected the glow of the braziers. The Commander said nothing, certain he’d seen a ring, and yet…_

_“What is your name, brother?”_

_“Fulton, my lord.”_

_“Peculiar name for a monk.”_

_Fulton shrugged. “We don’t choose our names. It’s what was given to me.”_

_“Indeed. Put back his hood. I would know what Brother Fulton looks like.”_

_Hands bound, Brother Fulton was in no position to do this himself. One of the guards yanked his hood back by its point. There was an uncomfortable stretch of silence._

_Without the hood, dark brown hair strayed in all directions, mostly over a bandage that wound around the monk’s head and over his eyes._

_“Were you wounded?” the Commander asked._

_“Not today, sire, no.”_

_“When?”_

_“Long ago. I had the blinding sickness as a child.”_

_Both guards cringed, even the Commander leaned back in his chair, repulsed. The blinding sickness was only catching if the victim was actively ill. It took three days for sight to be lost, and another five for the eyeball to dissolve. Once all the diseased tissue had melted away, there was no more risk of infection. The monk posed no threat- bacterially, at least- to anyone now. It explained why he’d turned to the religious life. It was unlikely anyone else would have suffered his presence, clean or otherwise._

_“How can a blind man heal the sick?”_

_The monk shrugged. “There are many senses besides sight. I have lived without my eyes for most of my life. I do not need to see illness or injury to treat it.”_

_“Then you are prepared to swear before your prophet that you were defending yourself and those you tended?”_

_“I am.”_

_The Commander nodded, and waved to the guards. “Take him to the edge of camp and release him. See that he finds the road before you return.”_

_Now reluctant to touch him, the guards stood only as near as they dared as the monk rose, bowed, and turned to exit the tent as if he knew exactly where he was going._

_The guards did little more than follow at a short distance, one of them shoving his few belongings- a satchel of herbs, a water skin, and his walking staff- into his hands before making a hasty retreat. Brother Fulton couldn’t help a smirk at the sound of two men twice his size and weight falling over themselves to get away from him. Turning, he stirred the gravel with his stick and struck off down the road._

_\--_

_The surprise of the others was palpable as he wandered whistling into camp._

_“Bloody hell! Fulton! You’re alive!”_

_“They actually let you go!”_

_Brother Fulton smiled. “Did you think they wouldn’t?”_

_“What did you tell them?”_

_The monk shrugged, taking a seat around the fire. “I just asked them nicely and they let me go.”_

_He could feel the dubious stares, the shaking of heads._

_“I’d love to learn your secret.”_

_Brother Fulton grinned. “No secret, just common courtesy.”_


	8. Rocks Fall...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know the rest.
> 
> Warnings for OC death and minor gore.

Stocke continued to track Raynie and Marco and their band of mercenaries from a distance. Fulton’s capture and release seemed to be the appropriate edit to the timeline. So far so good. Stocke flipped ahead a few pages, trying to remember if there was anything else he needed to worry about. Hadn’t Raynie said something about....there it was.

...oh no.

\--

_  
It took forever for the noise to fade, the roar of the falling earth louder than any beast she’d ever faced, any storm she’d ever weathered. Even locked in Marco’s arms, the dust was choking and she fought to breathe. For a long moment she thought the tunnel was still shaking and then realized no, it was only her. Or maybe Marco. Maybe both of them. Eventually the pounding of her heart and the rushing of her pulse were the only things audible over her laboured breathing. Somewhere in the darkness, gravel shifted and she tightened her grip on her friend. Marco adjusted his hold, placing one hand over her head. He wore a helmet, she didn’t. When no more rocks descended from the ceiling, she dared to look up._

_Hand shaking, she held out her arm. Magic crackled and a small sphere of blue light formed just above her outstretched palm. The sudden light stabbed her pupils, making her squint, though it could not be much brighter than a candle flame. Beside her, Marco carefully got to his feet, as if afraid any sudden movement might bring the rest of the roof down. A rasping noise made both of them start and whip around._

_A solid wall of earth and gravel stood less than six inches away, sloping sharply up towards the ceiling. Huge boulders, larger than a man, crowded one another within the narrow space of the collapsed tunnel. Lifting the light in her hand, Raynie cast about for the noise. Beside her, Marco drew his sword. There was no sign of the rest of the group- unless one counted pieces of broken weapons or the odd scrap of clothing tangled hopelessly among the debris._

_'Dead.' The word echoed inside Raynie’s head, around the walls of the mine shaft. 'They’re all dead…'_

_She and Marco had been near the front of the group. There had been virtually no warning when the tunnel collapsed, only strong hands pushing her forward, another pair pulling her along. There had been sixteen of them. Now...it was just the two of them._

_The moan came again. Raynie shrieked and danced away as something grabbed hold of her ankle. Marco raised his blade, ready to bring it down, but started and stopped short. Casting the weapon aside, he dropped to his knees and began digging frantically. A few handfuls of scooped earth revealed what had grabbed her. The light wavered as she swallowed hard and took a step forward._

_Brother Fulton lay facing the ceiling, almost completely buried beneath the fallen tunnel roof, only his head and left arm exposed. Hood thrown back, his face, hair, and ubiquitous blindfold were coated in a thick layer of brown dust. His mouth and throat worked mutely, producing only the horrible gasping sound. It reminded her of a rusty cart wheel, stabbing the ears and setting her teeth on edge. With his free arm he flailed, groping in the half-light until he found Marco’s sleeve._

_“It’s alright, Brother,” Marco told him gently. “We’ll get you out.”_

_No sooner had he said this than a fresh wash of gravel slid down from the ceiling, undoing all of his work and filling the monk’s mouth with dirt. Kneeling, Raynie did her best to brush the worst of it away as he coughed and spit._

_Brother Fulton struggled to speak, his lips forming words, but making no other sound save the rusted metal rasp. Marco took his hand in both of his and held it. Maybe it was the blue light, but Raynie thought he looked ill. Feeling sick herself, she looked at Brother Fulton, at the wash of rock and earth crushing him, and back again. There was no way they could get him out. Digging would only trigger another cave-in, and even if they could by some miracle get out from under the giant pile of boulders, what good would it do? Brother Fulton was more than injured, he’d been crushed, all but his head and shoulders and arm squashed pancake flat. He would not survive long enough to receive treatment, not that there was any treatment to give. Similar thoughts must have been going through Marco’s head, for she noticed the beginnings of a healing spell sparkling around his hands. Reaching, Raynie laid a hand on his. Marco looked up at her, expression helpless. The spell faded and vanished._

_Swallowing hard, she watched Brother Fulton’s lips, struggling to decipher what he was trying to say. At first she thought he was saying ‘save me’, but then…_

_‘Raynie…’ The bottom dropped out of her stomach. ‘He’s saying my name.’_

_Gently, she took Fulton’s hand from Marco and immediately he quieted._

_“It’s okay,” she told him, voice constricted but remarkably even. “I’m okay. Both Marco and I are fine. We got out all right. You saved us.”_

_He seemed reassured by that, though his throat still worked, trying hard to pull air into lungs crushed flat._

_‘Go,’ he mouthed, squeezing her hand once. Lips pressed together, Raynie swallowed hard. He wanted her to escape, to be safe, but she’d be damned if she was going to leave him here to die alone of suffocation. The tunnel rumbled threateningly, making her jerk her head up in alarm._

_“Raynie…” Marco began. A warm, orange light flared as he lifted his lantern. The glass was gone, but it still burned bright as day in the tomb the tunnel had become._

_“Just a minute,” she mumbled, shaking fingers fumbling at her belt. Allowing the light in her hand to flicker and fade, she stroked a hand over Fulton’s dirty hair. His fair skin was turning dark and blotchy as he fought for air and lost._

_“Shh…” she whispered, touching her forehead to his. Although his throat still bulged and constricted with effort, the horrible rasping had ceased. Tenderly, she touched her lips to his. He kissed her in return, his free hand falling heavily to the tunnel floor as she whisked her dagger across his throat._

_“I’m sorry,” she told him, letting his head loll to one side against her hand. “Goodbye...”_

_The tunnel trembled again. Hurrying to her feet, she grabbed Marco’s outstretched hand and ran._

\--

Mentally, Stocke cursed. What was the point was saving a man from death on the battlefield if he was only going to die later of what looked like an accident but wasn’t? Apparently Fate had only room enough for two to escape, and Fulton was not to be one of them. Raynie and Marco were the crucial characters in this story. However, Stocke had a feeling that Fulton’s role, while anonymous, might be just as important. He _needed_ to stay alive, and not simply to spare Raynie the pain of losing yet another friend.

The prayer book had come to Stocke. By all rights it should have been lost on the battlefield, or burned as fuel for an Alistel campfire, but it hadn’t. The book had survived, if not it’s owner, which meant that Fulton was important, though Stocke did not yet know how. Perhaps because of this, the monk seemed hellbent on getting himself killed.

He would not survive the battle with the Alistel troops without help. However, if he lived, he would be killed in the mine collapse. How then to save his life and then preserve it? What did one do to a monk who needed saving from himself? What did Abbots do with unrepentant clerics? Confine them to their cell to pray and reflect, most likely.

Wait a minute.

Cell.

The idea struck Stocke’s brain like a bolt of lightning and he snapped the White Chronicle closed. Yes. It was just crazy enough to work.

**Author's Note:**

> Isla doesn't have an official art that I'm aware of, so I took the liberty of coming up with a design for her based off of her sprite.  
> You can view it [here](http://rubyoftrinity.deviantart.com/art/Isla-Color-564516765%20).


End file.
